


Phosphenes

by kianspo



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, First Time, K/S Advent Calendar, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 10:25:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/306899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phosphenes -- the stars and colors you see when you rub your eyes.<br/>Or Jim and Spock get stranded on a planet possibly for good. They have lost everything, but perhaps they can find each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phosphenes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [KSAdvent](http://ksadvent.livejournal.com). Beta: the ever-wonderful [secret_chord25](http://secret-chord25.livejournal.com).

 

Four steps. Eleven steps. Then three steps, and six steps. Then four steps again, the last one half-crumbled. Mians don’t really believe in symmetry, and every step is higher or narrower or the reverse, and there’s no system, no way of predicting it.

Jim is tired. His feet are heavy, his thighs are filled with lead as he pushes the muscles into action again and again, climbing the stairs, and he still stumbles over their bizarre arrangement, even after all those months. There’s graffiti on the wall that Jim still can’t read but of which he knows every curve. He’s been meaning to ask about it since the day they moved into the building. He still hasn’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter. The familiar if unknown word on the wall that marks his way—

 _Home_.

Jim pushes the door open and walks into a small, murky room. A desk; a chair; a thick futon in the corner; a ‘wardrobe’ that’s in reality a big box with shelves. Jim has made all of this with his own hands, as surprised as anyone that he was any good at it. It’s crude but practical, and it’s not falling to pieces.

“Hey.”

Spock looks up from where he’s sitting on the floor and reading, legs crossed, back ramrod straight against the wall. The wall is curved, a bit tipsy. There are no even walls in all of Mian.

“Jim.” Spock blinks, sneaks an uncertain glance out the window.

Jim doesn’t say anything, just shrugs his jacket off, hanging it on the hook by the door. Spock’s been losing track of time a lot lately. Jim isn’t sure what he’s meant to do about it.

“Any progress in the lab?” Jim asks, rolling his neck from side to side, reveling in the way the muscles scream.

“None to speak of.” Spock’s voice is quiet, calm. He’s always calm.

Jim suddenly wants to hit him.

He steps toward the window instead, looking out into the rapidly thickening twilight. Their house is on top of a hill, and Jim can see the entirety of the town below them. The squares of rooftops, mud-grey and dusty red like a slice of orange dropped onto the ground. The tangled, clumsy web of streets produced by a butterfingered, amnesic spider. The delicate sound of a song started early in the night, drifting from window to window. A fat, shapeless cloud crawling down the side of the mountain, making a few latish shepherds hurry back home.

“What about the factory?”

Jim resists the urge to press his forehead against the frost-bitten glass. “I sent everyone home. They aren’t – this isn’t working.”

“It is not their fault, Jim.”

“I know – it’s mine. Not only did I manage to crash us on a planet at the bottom of a gravity well, I picked one that has no use for advanced technology.”

He can hear Spock frowning. “That was not my meaning.”

“I know.” Jim half-turns, giving him what he hopes resembles a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

There was a time when Spock would have reminded him that Vulcans didn’t worry. That time had long passed.

The first few months were hopeful. The reality of their situation hadn’t yet sunken in. Jim was his usual energetic self; Spock, a creative mastermind. The Mians were friendly and helpful, curious but polite. Ideal hosts.

But days went by, and no progress was made. Jim built his factory using whatever materials he could find, the locals helping him eagerly but with no real interest or understanding. Spock built his lab, scraping every last bit of surviving technology from their shuttle. They spent their nights trying to design a craft that could break out of the gravitational trap. Spock would spend the day experimenting and Jim trying to build things. Neither of them would mention the fact that even back home, with all the scientific might and engineering genius of the Federation, a technology such as this hadn’t been ever considered viable.

They were Starfleet, they were _Enterprise_ , they were Kirk (and Spock). They would build an atomic reactor using stone knives and bearskins if they had to. They did _not_ give up.

Six months in, there came fear. Nine months in – anger. What kind of civilization knows about space travel and doesn’t want to join in? Doesn’t develop technologies, doesn’t even try to look at what’s out there?

Twelve months in came the apathy. Jim wakes up in the morning, knowing Spock is up on the roof meditating. Jim would go to work, but these days? He’d be sketching internal combustion chambers and look for fuel sources, screwing the Prime Directive into oblivion viciously. It’s not like the Mians care for his toys, anyway – they serve to amuse their children. Jim is strangely okay with that.

“Do we have candles left?” Jim asks. Then, without waiting, he opens a desk drawer to check. There’s a single fat candle, half-burnt and garishly yellow. Jim cringes but sets it up on the desk, fumbling his pockets for the lighter.

“Here,” Spock says.

“Thanks.”

Jim lights the candle, rubs his hands, breathing on them. “Why is it so cold in here?”

“Berrina is out of coal. She will receive a new supply in the morning; however—”

“It’ll be one of those nights?”

“Yes.”

Jim turns back toward the window, cringing. “Wonderful.”

He doesn’t know for how long he’s been standing there when suddenly, something makes him blink and stare. He feels an ice-cold burning under his eyelids and it takes him a moment to realize why the world is suddenly blurry.

He must have made some kind of sound, because Spock unfolds himself from the floor and steps toward him. “Jim?”

“I’m okay,” Jim says, glancing back quickly, lips twitching in a broken grin. “It’s just that – it’s snowing.”

He can feel Spock standing right behind him, looking over his shoulder. The snowflakes are small, white and pretty, waltzing down unhurriedly with no wind to chase them.

“It is to be expected,” Spock says, and it’s not meteorology that makes his voice sound questioning, uncertain. “We are close to the mountains. It is—”

“Christmas.” Jim exhales softly. “It’s Christmas.”

He closes his eyes, but the tears spill anyway, quiet and sparse. Jim draws in a deep breath, trying to squash whatever it is that’s clawing inside his chest, sharp and burning.

Spock is silent behind him, a firm, solid presence carved in stone. Jim wants to step back, wants to press against him – but it’s not what they do, not what they are. He presses his palm against the windowpane instead.

“There’s a planet out there, somewhere. We both call it home. Do you remember it, Spock?”

“Jim—”

“They’re singing carols now. There’re gingerbread people and lights in every shop window. Kids in funny hats – I never had one. Not till the Academy; Gaila got me one. We went caroling the whole lot of us, not giving two shits about Christmas, not religious or anything. Just drunk and – and happy. Happy.”

Spock doesn’t try to say anything this time, but moves closer, watching the snow fall.

“Bones is probably with his daughter,” Jim says after a while. “I mean, I hope he is. Christmas is a family time, right? Such a cliché. I never wanted any of it; I really never did. Guess I didn’t see this coming.”

He bows his head and shakes it forcibly. “God, Spock, I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to start a self-pity fest, I just—”

“Shh,” Spock breathes in his ear, wrapping his arms around Jim from behind.

Jim closes his eyes and leans back, shivering. Spock’s lips are warm as they press softly to the side of Jim’s neck, trailing small, gentle kisses downward. Spock’s hair tickles Jim’s skin, and Jim sighs deeply, his hands coming to rest on top of Spock’s.

“Don’t,” Jim whispers. “Don’t, Spock. Please. Stop.”

They’ve been here before, nine months ago. Jim pushed Spock away then, too. It wasn’t right.

He and Spock were arguing just before the crash. Spock was mad at him. Spock always used to be mad at him back then. Before Jim stranded them on a space analogue of a desert island.

 _Before_.

He didn’t blame Spock for offering. In their circumstances, anyone would have cracked, and Spock was Vulcan, not dead. Mian nights were cold and their landlady didn’t always have enough coal; sleeping together was a survival thing. They rarely touched through the night, but Jim liked to feel Spock’s presence beside him, the quiet sound of Spock’s breathing often being the only thing to get him through the night, when the walls seemed to clench over his head and the stars were always unfamiliar.

Spock reached for him once, just once. Quiet, wordless, all in his eyes, in the almost timid touch of his hand on Jim’s wrist. Spock barely did anything at all, but he certainly didn’t make it easy.

Jim cursed under his breath and pulled back. He said no in a voice that didn’t shake. He turned away and ordered himself to sleep. Spock was quieter than usual the next few days, but Spock was always quiet now. It made little difference, and Jim was content to never talk about it again.

Yet here they are now, and it isn’t any less wrong. Or easier.

“Stop,” Jim pleads. “Spock, stop.”

Except this time, Spock doesn’t listen. His arms tighten around Jim, and he doesn’t move away.

“Why?”

Jim swallows. “I don’t want you.”

“ _That_ is a lie.”

“No, it isn’t.”

He tries to break free, but it’s not a fair fight. He’s struggling with both Spock and himself, and any part of it is too much on any given day.

Spock is careful but not gentle as he whirls Jim around and pins him to the wall next to the window frame.

“Don’t—”

Spock kisses him, swallowing his protests. It’s hard, hot, unrelenting. Jim is dizzy with it, his head spinning, fingers tangling in Spock’s hair (longer now, curling around his ears). Spock’s tongue swipes along the seam of Jim’s lips, sharp and scalding, pushing in without asking for permission, without needing it. Jim moans helplessly, his head lolling back, mouth falling open, spikes of heat shaking his whole frame, trickling down, sizzling with that special brand of electricity that hurts so good. Spock changes the angle, pressing deeper, his thighs bracketing Jim’s hips, firm, unmoving, as Jim grinds against him instinctively, moaning again because _Jesus Christ_ it’s so good.

“Why?” Spock demands again, harsh, pulling back for a moment. His pupils are blown wide and Jim sucks in a desperate breath because he has never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

“I don’t—”

Spock growls. “Stop _lying_ to me.”

He bends his head down quickly, pressing his mouth to the sensitive spot under Jim’s ear and biting down sharply. Jim gasps and bucks against him, fingers clenching reflexively on Spock’s shoulders.

“Why, Jim?”

Jim looks at him for the longest moment before brushing his thumb against Spock’s cheekbone gently. He leans up and kisses Spock, fleeting and sweet, but he means it.

“Because it would mean that it’s over,” Jim whispers. “It’d mean that we’ll never go home.”

The fierce edge eases away from Spock’s expression, replaced by puzzlement. Jim smiles even as his heart clenches – a confused Spock will never not be endearing.

“You never used to like me before,” Jim explains, pressing a small, cautious kiss to Spock’s jaw, wondering how many more he could steal before it’s over. “If we do this, it means you’ve given up on ever going back. It means we’ve surrendered.”

Spock stares at him as the words sink in and, then suddenly sags against Jim, the tremendous tension that has kept him rigid bleeding out so fast it leaves him trembling. Spock’s head falls on Jim’s shoulder, and Jim slides his arms around Spock instantly, his heart too heavy for his chest, every beat leaving a bruise.

“Hey,” Jim breathes, holding Spock closer. “Hey, come on, it’s okay. It’s okay, Spock, it’s okay. It’s fine.”

“I love you,” Spock says very distinctly. He straightens up, finds Jim’s eyes, and repeats, “I love you, Jim.”

“You—” Jim chokes on air. “ _Oh_.”

Spock’s expression hardens and he pulls away. “You may not believe me. You may choose to continue wallowing in your grief over something that is unfortunate but cannot be changed and remain blind to everything around you. You truly may not want me and when we find our way out of here – _when_ , Jim – you may choose to never speak to me again.”

Spock glares at him. “But do not insult me by suggesting that, like a confused child, I am incapable of distinguishing true feelings from the emotional aftermath of trauma.”

Spock steps back and picks up his coat, draping it over his arm. “You may be my captain, Jim. But _this_ is _my_ choice, and you had no right to make it for me.”

The door creaks dully as Spock pushes it closed behind him.

 

\--

Jim watches the snow twirl down slowly until the candle burns out in the early hours of morning. Spock still isn’t back. It’s cold in the room; it must be much colder outside. Jim bites his lips and rubs his arms until he finally dozes off, shivering under the thin blanket.

He’s woken by the lights dancing on the back of his eyelids. Blinking, Jim opens his eyes. It’s way too early still, and the sky is dark.

Spock is moving quietly around the room, lighting the candles he has set on every available surface. They are lopsided and vaguely red and there are about a dozen of them. Jim can hear the sharp, cheery smell of _areef_ – a hot drink that passes for coffee on Mian. Jim likes it, but he doesn’t always go all the way to the main square to get it. There’s a thermos jug on the desk and two mugs, and Spock is taking something out of a paper bag and arranging it on the single plate they own.

Jim sits up, tucking the blanket around him. Spock must already know he’s awake, because he doesn’t even glance at him as he sits down beside Jim, placing the plate between them. His features seem chiseled, sharp and not a little bit stunning in the warm pulsing glow. Jim’s throat constricts painfully and he glances down at the plate.

There’s a gingerbread man on it.

Of course it’s not actually gingerbread. Jim recognizes the pale, sweet dough of the local bakery, its usual cheery aroma tamed with a gentle scent vaguely reminiscent of cinnamon. Jim looks up at Spock, unable to find words.

“I could not locate ginger, obviously,” Spock says.

Jim grins weakly. “I’m allergic to it, anyway.”

“I know.”

Jim bites his lip and reaches to take Spock’s hand. It’s cold, and Jim clasps it with both his own, rubbing gently, prompting Spock to look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

Spock shakes his head softly; he doesn’t say anything.

Jim groans mentally and leans closer, almost panicking at the thought of losing eye contact.

“I do love you,” he says. His heart stops for a moment, horrified. Jim ignores it. “God, Spock, I have for – you don’t know – longer than—”

Spock is gazing at him calmly, but something softens in his expression. “Jim.” He sighs. “I _know_.”

Jim nods, dazed. He looks around, eyes widening, as if taking everything in for the very first time. The smells are sharper, the candlelight brighter, the air thinner, as if someone has refocused a lens somewhere and brought everything into full, wonderful contrast.

Jim sets the plate aside and looks at Spock – stares, really, the way he’s never allowed himself before. Spock takes his breath away, intense and quiet and dangerous, taking no bullshit from anyone, not even Jim. He’s beautiful in a way Jim didn’t know people could be, and it’s making Jim’s heart ache.

Spock sits very still, hardly even breathing, as Jim leans closer, cups his face gently, and kisses him. It’s the same and different from before – this moving together, meeting halfway, opening up at the same time, holding tight, pulling each other closer. Jim straddles Spock’s lap, pushing him down on their lumpy, hard bed, the kiss deep and never-ending, too messy and perfect and not for show and Jim might die if they stop. Spock’s hands slide up and down Jim’s back, sneaking under his t-shirt, greedy for skin, and Jim pushes into the touch he’s wanted for longer than he can remember.

“Jim,” Spock breathes against his lips. “Jim, wait.”

“What?” Jim has just discovered that Spock makes _amazing_ noises when Jim sucks on his earlobe and is not to be deterred.

“Much as I – _ah_ – enjoy – this,” Spock pushes out bravely, even as he arches clear off the bed at Jim’s touch. “The _areef_ will – get cold.”

Jim stops abruptly and stares down at him. Then he starts laughing. “Seriously?”

Spock pushes him off and sits up, but not before Jim spots a flicker of mirth in his eyes. “Our current conditions leave little place for romance.”

Jim grins and grabs Spock’s shoulder for support to lift himself up. Spock looks flushed, his hair in disarray, his lips unusually bright, drawing attention to their fullness and perfect shape, and Jim sidles closer instinctively, staring and staring.

Spock raises a vaguely embarrassed eyebrow as he hands Jim a mug. Jim steals a quick kiss and grins. “You don’t get to be shy now.”

Spock turns away, but his lips quirk, and Jim laughs softly, wrapping his free arm around him. He’s warm and content, feeling wide awake for the first time in a long time.

Afterwards, they reach for each other seamlessly, and Spock doesn’t hear ‘no’ this time. All he hears from Jim, all that Jim can muster are the muffled, hoarse grunts and low moans and the near silent begging of his desperate fingers, the soundless pleading of his body.

Later, Spock curls up on his side and drifts to sleep, and Jim drapes himself over him beneath the blankets. Spock has always had it worse with the cold. He never complained, but Jim isn’t actually unobservant, just selectively so. It’s quiet and dark as Jim lies there, peering out into the slowly lightening sky.

There’s an unfamiliar star staring back at him from its vantage point in the zenith. It’s bright and huge and very steady. For a moment, just before he follows Spock into the dream world, Jim allows himself a little hopeful fantasy in which things are the same, but different.

He and Spock are still huddled close together, but the star isn’t actually a star. It’s a Federation shuttlecraft, coming to take them home.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Best part about this:
> 
>   
>    
> 
> 
> Gorgeous, gorgeous [companion ART](http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/kianspo/21511712/2421/2421_original.png) by the amazing [makowe_pola](http://makowe-pola.livejournal.com).


End file.
